


Dead End?

by KilljoyNephilim



Category: Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, The Runaways (2010), The Runaways (Band)
Genre: Ends with the punishment all pedophiles deserve, F/F, Other, Pedophilia, Suicide Attempt, suicide note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24890479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilljoyNephilim/pseuds/KilljoyNephilim
Summary: Joan groaned as she picked up the phone. It was four in the morning. She grunted into the phone."Joan?""Yeah?""Don't miss me."Then Cherie cut the call.
Relationships: Cherie Currie/Joan Jett
Kudos: 11





	Dead End?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if this is unrealistic. I'm just trying to process something that happened a few years back - it's easier to say Joan than "I" and easier to say "Cherie" than my friend's name.

The hotel room’s phone rang. Joan groaned – it was four in the morning, and she’d only just started to fall asleep. It had been a long, long day. There were _three_ radio interviews, and she’d only got about an hour alone with her guitar. She snarled, picking up the phone.

“Who is it?” She growled.

“Joan?”

“Cherie?”

“Don’t miss me.”

“What the fuck are you saying –“

 _Fuck sleep_ , Cherie was more important. She grabbed the phone again, dialling Cherie’s room.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up…” She said, before giving up and slamming the phone down, throwing her covers off. Cherie _never_ just cut the call. Unless something was _severely_ wrong. She shoved her feet into her Doc Martens, throwing on the first shirt she could find and springing out of her room and up the stairs to Cherie’s – there was no fucking time to wait for the bloody elevator.

She pounded her fist on Cherie’s door.

“Open the fuck up!” She practically yelled, to no response. She stepped back, before charging at the door, kicking it in.

No sign of Cherie.

_Fuck, fuckfuckfuck-_

She looked around frantically. Everything of hers was right there – the bags, the clothes, hell even the makeup and picture of her sister. She whipped her head around, searching for something – _anything –_ that could give away something about where she was. She couldn’t have gone far – it had been only seconds since the phone call.

The hotel notepad was on the bed, something scribbled on the front page. Joan picked it up, reading the mere two lines she’d written.

_I can’t take it. I’m sorry to whoever found this – I wasn’t murdered, don’t make this more than it is. Yes, I jumped. No, you’re not entitled to know why._

_– Cherie Currie_

Joan read it again. _Fuck_ , Cherie was about to _kill_ herself. By jumping-

Before Joan knew it, she’d dropped the note back on the bed, and was sprinting up to the rooftop. Cherie had always said that if she died, her death had to be spectacular. Joan had said something similar about herself, not realizing Cherie was being serious.

She flung the door to the rooftop open. Cherie was _right_ there, standing on the ledge.

“Get the fuck down from there or so help me-“

Cherie cut her off. “I am getting down.” She tilted her head back, closing her eyes, as if to savour her final moment, a slightly sick smile on her face. She let out a dry laugh.

Joan swallowed some of the bile she tasted in her mouth, starting to walk towards Cherie. “Cherie, please don’t do this,” She said, her eyes widening in terror. Every fibre of her being was screaming at her to go _faster_ , get her down. Pull her if you have to.

But Joan knew – Cherie was easily startled. Always had been. If she touched her without a warning, she’d lose her balance due to shock, and die anyway.

Joan kept talking.

“What’s going on, Cherie?” She asked, slowly walking towards her.

Cherie shook her head. Joan gasped as she noticed the mascara tears flowing down her face; Cherie had been dealing with… whatever this was caused by for a _long_ time.

“Cherie say something!” She yelled, her mind going a mile a minute.

“What the fuck do you want me to say, Joan? Some profound speech after which I break down crying and tell you I don’t want to die? Well, guess the fuck what! I do! And there’s nothing you or anyone can do to change anything – I’ve made up my mind, and I’m doing this!” She screamed. “Yu don’t notice shit about what’s been going on – and now, because of that one phone call, you suddenly want to know everything? Get a fucking grip, Jett. You may be my best friend, but you’re hardly a bit above everyone else.”

There was nothing Joan could say to get Cherie down She bit back her tears, before using her last resort. She grabbed her leg, yanking it back and pulling Cherie off the edge of the rooftop. There was a sickening sound as Cherie’s lip connected with the corner, blood flowing freely from her face. Joan grabbed her in her arms, gripping her so tightly that struggle as she might, she couldn’t get out.

Cherie let out an ear-splitting scream, kicking and doing everything she could to get out of Joan’s death grip – thankfully to no avail as she finally started calming down.

She gripped onto Joan’s forearm, shaking against the older girl and letting her tears fall freely.

“I – I can’t do it anymore, Joan.”

“Do what?”

“Tour, with – with him always there…”

“Kim?”

Cherie nodded.

“What happened?”

Cherie whimpered. “I don’t want to be the sex kitten…” Joan assumed she was talking about her stage persona, opening her mouth to say something comforting. Before she could, Cherie curled up against herself. “I don’t want to feel his hands on me before every show, I don’t want to wear those clothes he sets out and I don’t want him to – I can’t even say it.” She let a few more tears fall. “E-Every time he’s alone with me, h-he puts his hand i-inside what I’m wearing, tells me to be a g-good kitten and _want_ t-the orgasm as h-he…” Her jaw trembled. “He uses my body. I don’t want to be his little fuckdoll anymore, however perfect he says my body is…”

Joan swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.

“He… What?” More tears fell from Cherie’s eyes. Joan was in shock – of course – though she believed Cherie without the shadow of a doubt. “Cherie…”

“I can’t!” Cherie screamed again, shaking her head.

Joan was appalled – Cherie was _sixteen_. Kim was _far_ older – more than twice her age. She wrapped her arms around Cherie, feeling her wince.

“What happened?”

“When I don’t agree easily…” She lifted her shirt a bit, revealing a fresh cigarette burn.

It took Joan everything she had to hold back the tears welling up in her eyes – she had to keep it together. For _Cherie_. 

“It’s also why I spent most of the money I make on drugs – I don’t want to feel it anymore! Ever, ever again! I hate this, Joan…”

She cried against Joan’s chest. Giant, heaving sobs. Joan was shaking too – mostly from rage. She felt her pockets for her switchblade, sighing in relief when she felt it. Cherie had passes out against her; tears still streaking her face.

Joan knew what she had to do.

She slowly lifted Cherie off the ground, dragging her back to her hotel room. She took out her lighter, setting the note Cherie had written ablaze and locking the door from the outside. She took in a deep breath, going to their manager’s room.

As silently as possible, she jammed her knife into the gap between the door and frame, forcing it to unlock and heading inside. She emptied the minibar, pouring the whiskey, vodka and whatever else she could find around the room. She took out her lighter, placing a half-used cigarette in his hand and pressing the lighter to the ground just before leaving, clicking it again.

“However this ends, you’re not hurting anyone again,” She snarled. This was the only way – if she took it to the cops, it would be Kim’s word against hers, and she _knew_ how that would end. No, this was the only way.

She walked out, letting the smoke start to escape, taking her knife and running to Cherie’s room.

They were safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Kim Fowley is going to BURN or go to jail (yes, for arson, but it's not like powerful pedophiles get any jail time. Any arsonist does).   
> Yes, pedophiles and rapists all deserve that or worse.   
> No, there aren't any exceptions.


End file.
